


Ante

by stateofintegrity



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:33:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26696062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stateofintegrity/pseuds/stateofintegrity
Summary: The Swamp Rats make a bet that Charles won't dance with Klinger.
Relationships: Maxwell Klinger/Charles Emerson Winchester III
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Ante

Fewer bets took place under Vegas moonlight, fountains bubbling with water drawn from miles away, lights flashing, than were placed in Uijeongbu during a slow week. 

The personnel of MASH 4077 bet on  _ everything  _ (except patients because that was just ugly): horse shoes, cards, wheelchair races, the survival of Klinger’s nylons… and no one bet more or more fiercely than Charles Emerson Winchester III. In the beginning, the personnel who squared off against him figured it was because the man had the money to lose; certainly, Charles wept less over lost coin than anyone else on base. What they didn’t know was that this casual show of gracious losing was merely (in Charles’ mind) an indication of good breeding and that the thing he was actually gambling on had never been articulated by him or by anyone else on the base… not yet. 

And no one had yet noticed that Charles’ preferred partner in these wild wagers was someone to whom betting was second nature, someone who could be found kneeling in glittering golden knee pads in the backroom of Rosie’s, playing dice. Obscured behind a poppy red curtain, Charles watched the gentle trickster grinning, gambling, clever fingers casting the dice. He delighted in watching Klinger; he’d never known so open an individual. Nor had anyone ever captured his gaze the way the slender Corporal did. Charles wished he could blame it on the outfits, but even when Klinger wore fatigues, the Bostonian was hyper-aware of him. The trick would be making Klinger aware of  _ him _ … and gauging whether or not his attentions were welcome. He knew that Klinger had been married. Of course,  _ Klinger _ had been the one wearing the wedding gown - so that surely meant something, right? 

The surest way from point A to point B, cartographers would tell you, was a straight line. The surest way to get something out in the open in the 4077th was Benjamin “Hawkeye” Pierce’s mouth. So, Charles made comments calculated to get Pierce to think what he wanted him to think… and sat back and waited. At the O Club one night, he sighed into his cognac (what kind of bar was it where you had to bring your own booze, honestly?) and watched Klinger move about the room in something black and sparkling that tied at his neck (Charles wished he could untie it… with his teeth) with red silk flowers in his hair. Seeing other hands on those slim hips actually hurt him.  _ You should never be touched with anything less than true worship, beautiful _ , he thought, before almost laughing aloud at himself. When was the last time he’d rhapsodized over anyone in so overblown a manner? But who better to lavish (internally voiced) poetry on than a man with silver bows on his shoes? Klinger wouldn’t censor him for being bombastic - he’d welcome the praise, the deep notice he gave to all parts of him.  _ And I would treasure both the your softness and your strength, darling. You could be anything with me.  _ Seeing the dancers sway, he continued this internal conversation that Maxwell could not hear, promising the lovely Corporal that he could lead or follow at whim. 

“Nah, he’d never,” he surfaced to hear Pierce saying, drunk and loud. Well, maybe drunk. Charles could never tell when alcohol was to blame and when Pierce was just being his ridiculous self. 

“Who would not do what?” Charles asked. 

“Welcome back, Chuckles,” Pierce greeted, shoving at his shoulder. The dark-haired surgeon, all tattered bathrobe and movie star smile, couldn’t know it, but Charles valued these small instances of touch. He’d gone without almost any form of contact for much of his life. Being included in this way charmed him (not that he’d ever admit it) even it was only how Pierce  _ was _ , overflowing with energy and physicality. “We’re talking wagers. Wanna get in?”

The mischief in Pierce’s eyes clued Charles in to the peril he might be putting himself in, but what the hell? No one was shelling them right now - why not manufacture danger in the absence of bullets? “What scheme have you devised to cede your money to me this time, Pierce?”

Across the table, Hunnicutt snickered. “He’s got your number, Hawk.”

“Yeah, yeah, but try to get an obscene phone call out of the guy,” Pierce began. 

Charles stopped this before it became an entire routine. “The bet, Pierce. The bet.”

“Fine. You know you’re really boring sometimes?”

“And you are tedious 59 seconds out of every moment, yet here we sit.”

Hunnicutt stepped in for his best friend. “Hawk thinks you won’t dance.”

Charles knew there was more to it than that. He rarely engaged in the so-called social life of the 4077th, but he had spun its nurses around the polished floor of the O Club before - sometimes just to show his tent-mates up. “To what manner of dance are we referring? I thought, Hunnicutt, that your desire to see me half-dressed had been, ah, curbed, so I assume the dance of a seven veils is  _ off _ the table?”

Hunnicutt frowned thunderclouds at him. That particular prank (causing Charles to lose his pants on more than one occasion) had backfired when Pierce and Winchester had teamed up to make BJ lose… well everything. 

Hawk laughed his maniacal laugh; BJ had deserved what he’d gotten. “You pick the dance, Charles.  _ We  _ pick the partner. Refuse, and we get to pick your pocket, too.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Gentlemen, please. Who is it, precisely, with whom I would fear to dance?”

“You taking the bet, big shot?” Hunnicutt demanded. 

“The phrase is, I believe, ‘bring it on.’”

“That was almost too easy,” Hawk said with just a soupcon of suspicion. “Go get your date, Chuckles.” He indicated his would-be partner with a jerk of his head. 

Charles smiled without showing anything on his face.  _ Perfect _ . He’d been searching for an opening gambit for his campaign to win Klinger’s heart. And this one had the advantage of letting him talk with his hands; he had really  _ good _ hands. “Terms?”

“You don’t trust us?”

One of Winchester’s brows rose, an eloquent expression that clearly conveyed his absolute and utter lack of trust… and the dozens of escapades (and snakes left in his bed) that had reinforced it.

“Fine, fine. You dance with him - with actual contact - and we buy your next bottle of cognac.”

Charles could manipulate such a bet - there were  _ expensive _ bottles of cognac; apparently Pierce and Hunnicutt trusted his honor somewhat. “And if I refuse?” he had no intention of doing any such thing, but why not delay the moment and let his anticipation build? He touched Klinger as often as he could contrive the means to do so - chance brushes in OR, “tripping” against the man in chow line - but he’d never had him in his arms. He wanted to imagine it a moment longer. 

“You buy us actual gin - a bathtub worth.”

“That would last the two of you… a day? Two?”

“You backing down from a bet, Chaz?” Hunnicutt’s mustache was practically twitching. 

“Not ‘tall.” He stood, tossed back the remainder of his drink (he had more and better cognac coming his way) and went to collect his Corporal. (Fine, the possessive  _ was _ premature but it did far too much for him to leave it off). 

Coming up behind the lovely young man, Charles let a hand settle on his shoulder (god, the man was so fine-boned!), fingers curling in something just short of a caress. “May I have this dance, Maxwell?”

Charles couldn’t prove it - not for sure - but it seemed that Klinger might have shivered. “Captain’s razzing you, sir?”

Charles had been cracking wise in regard to Klinger’s intelligence since his arrival, but the man could read a room. “They are,” the blue blood agreed. “But I have very much wished for just this opportunity. Please, Max?” 

Klinger closed his eyes, admitted, “Say my name like that and you could get lots more than a dance out of it.” 

Charles escorted him to the floor, ignoring everyone, including his tent-mates, delighting in the warmth of Klinger’s long-coveted touch. He leaned in to confide, “Say my name at all, Max, and you might quite undo me.” 

Klinger filed this information away, but continued to look nervous when Charles drew him near and placed a hand on the small of his back. “People will laugh, sir.” 

“Let them, darling. Your beauty is undeniable and I believe, Korea notwithstanding, that I still dance very well.” 

He was right, Klinger had to admit. Despite the differences in their height and build, they moved as well together as any actual couple on the base. Charles’ eyes held his, communicated, silently, that there might just be a reason for that. 

“Show them up, sir.”

“My dear?” 

“The bet was for dancing, right?”

“Yes. And you are as graceful in my arms as I knew you would be, beautiful.” 

Klinger rose up on his toes. Beautiful was a  _ feminine  _ pronoun. It thrilled him. “Kiss me.”

“To show up the Captains?” His eyes were wide, merry, mischievous.

“Because you want to.”

“What do you want?” 

“To find out if you’re as good at it as I think you are.” 

He was. 

The two left the floor hand in hand - then they left the O club. 

Hawk and Beej stared after them before collapsing into laughter. But then their CO came to their table, hand extended. “Pay up, boys. Soph needs a new halter.” 

End! 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
